


Actions Speak Louder than Words

by Radclyffe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Poetry, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock, john is a rubbish poet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-12 03:09:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20138530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radclyffe/pseuds/Radclyffe
Summary: Five times Sherlock was concerned by John's poetry and one time he was confounded





	Actions Speak Louder than Words

**Author's Note:**

> I have wanted to write a 5+1 Johnlock for a while, I saw this not quite prompt from vintage-lilacs on kitten-kin's tumblr and this sort of happened. It doesn't quite fit the original ask as I couldn't bring myself to have Sherlock tease John about his attempts to write poetry.  
PS - Like John I am no poet.

I

It was a quiet afternoon in Baker Street.

Not the hollow silence that had followed Sherlock’s return from exile, nor the lonely silence while John was living across town with his wife, and certainly not the agonising silence following Mary’s death, when John had cut Sherlock out of his life. Rather it was the relieved silence that can only come after a spirited toddler has been bundled into her coat and out to the park with daddy ready to burn off some energy before bath time.

Unusually Sherlock had stayed behind, unusual as in the months since John and Rosie had been in residence at 221B these regular excursions where the three of them went out _en famille_ had become the highlights of Sherlock’s week. Today was the exception; Sherlock had declined the afternoon’s pleasure claiming that the experiment presently occupying his thoughts (and the kitchen of 221C) was at a critical stage and would need constant supervision. It was a sacrifice, but there would be other ducks to feed.

In all honesty the experiment could easily have been left for an hour but Sherlock had a more pressing reason to want the flat to himself for a while. It did not need a genius consulting detective to deduce that John was mithered over something. He was distracted, his brow creased, he worried his bottom lip far more than was usual. It was obvious that he was hiding something from his flatmate and as a result Sherlock was determined to uncover it as a matter of urgency. The game, for what it was worth, was on.

Earlier that afternoon, while a reluctant Rosie was down for a nap and John had thought himself alone Sherlock had spied him scribbling notes on a piece of paper. John had hurriedly stuffed the paper down the side of his chair when he realised that Sherlock had come back upstairs and then hidden it more carefully when he thought Sherlock wasn’t looking. The detective had had to wait a full, and unacceptable, two hours for John to leave the flat with Rosie in order to retrieve the paper and find out what the doctor was being so mysterious about.

The paper, when Sherlock finally got his hands on it, was nothing out of the ordinary, easily recognised as a page torn from one of the reporter style notebooks John favoured. There were fifteen words written in John’s barely legible doctor’s scrawl, though for some reason the last three had been struck through.

_A thing of beauty, a wonder to behold_

_With raven hair, and <strike>eyes of gold</strike>_

Disappointed Sherlock threw the paper onto the table. This was no insight into John’s mental state merely a clue from the cryptic crossword which John had been attempting to decipher last night.

Sherlock was casually dismissive of cryptic crosswords preferring real life mysteries but he always responded to the challenge to succeed where others had failed. Picking up the paper again he started to play around with the words in his mind palace. ‘A thing of beauty, a wonder to behold’ so that was the first part of the clue, the answer being in the second ‘with raven hair and eyes of gold’ struck out. An anagram possibly? The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe, an author Sherlock considered sufficiently worthy to have resisted deletion. Au, the symbol for gold? Another possibility.

It would help if he knew the number of letters, or could fill in some of the blanks from other clues. Mildly annoyed with himself for getting sucked in by such a banal conundrum, Sherlock started to look for yesterday’s newspaper where he assumed he would find the crossword the clue belonged to. He located the paper in the recycling bin but the crossword was untouched. Curious, he ferreted through the papers from the previous week but the crosswords were all the same unattempted state. Not from the Evening Standard then or at least not a recent one but nevertheless nothing to do with John’s distracted state after all.

Sherlock pondered the words on the notepaper a little longer while absentmindedly flicking through the old newspaper until his attention was gripped by the report of an unexplained death in a house in Camberwell that sounded suspiciously like another death he’d investigate three months earlier. Sherlock reached for his phone and started firing off texts to Lestrade, the words on the paper forgotten until sometime later he heard the door downstairs open and the exciting babbling of a two and a half year old as John and Rosie greeted Mrs H. Sherlock hurriedly stuffed the piece of paper back where he had taken it from and went down to meet them.

II

“Features”

“What?” John mumbled round his piece of toast while distractedly packing his daughter’s day bag.

“The clue that was bothering you, hair and eyes, feet and AU for gold, its answer has got to be features”

John looked at Sherlock as if he had suddenly grown additional features of his own. “I have no idea what you are on about and I really have no time to try to work it out now, I am late enough as it is. You are sure you’re ok to collect Rosie from the minder?”

“Absolutely, it is my number one job for today”

“Then we’ll be off. I’ll pick up a Chinese on the way home, and you’ll eat some whether you’re on a case or not. Come along Rosie, say goodbye to Sherlock”

Sherlock set the alarm on phone for 3.15pm to remind him to collect Rosie (not that he would ever forget) and booted up his laptop. Lestrade had promised to send him over the photographs of the Camberwell corpse and he was anxious to see if he could identify the similarities himself. The day passed in earnest research interspersed with lengthy texts to Scotland Yard. Around one thirty Lestrade popped by with Donavan and Sherlock reeled off his deductions so far, then the two police officers departed for the house in Camberwell. Sherlock watched them go with a touch of regret, but it was ten to three and he had a promise to keep.

Noting that the day had turned cloudy and remembering that Rosie had gone out that morning wearing only a light summer dress Sherlock thought he should take a cardigan for his goddaughter when he went to collect her from the child minder. He ran up the stairs to the bedroom John shared with his daughter since his return to Baker Street.

The room now contained two single beds, two dressers and a wardrobe and although it was kept meticulously tidy as befitted an ex-army doctor it was hopelessly crowded. Sherlock wondered, as he often did, how much longer it would be practical for the Watsons to share a room. It crossed his mind again that he should offer to move into the basement flat, so that John could have his room. But he was reluctant, selfish as it might seem, to give up his tenure of 221B, his home and refuge. There was an alternative of course, but he had long ago dismissed that as an impossible dream.

Sherlock quickly found a hoodie for Rosie to wear on the way home and was just leaving the room when he noticed a scrunched up piece of paper on the floor, just beyond the waste bin, as if it had been thrown but missed the target. It was the same notepaper as the night before and Sherlock found it impossible to resist investigating further.

He sat down on the edge of John’s bed and straightened out the paper. There was more writing this time, something like a poem.

_Your hair of ebony, and ivory skin_

_Your eyes two pools for me to drown in _

_Oh brilliant beauty, I’ve fallen for your charms_

_If I could only hold you in my arms _

_And kiss you tenderly, your lips on mine,_

_Locked together until the end of time._

Goodness, Sherlock thought, having read the words through twice for the sheer awfulness to sink in, what on earth was John doing copying out doggerel like this? Was the writer planning on splitting himself in half so that he drowned in both pools at once? Sherlock couldn’t see how John’s previous experience of pools would be anything he would be keen to revisit. As for kissing for eternity, well the average human being was able to hold their breath comfortably for little over 60 seconds, while he had trained himself to hold his breath for several minutes that was at the peak of his fitness and he was by no means certain that John could do anything similar. No the whole thing was nasty, sentimental gibberish.

This train of thought was disrupted by the vibration of his phone, it was quarter past three already. Picking up the hoodie for Rosie, Sherlock scrunched up the paper and lobbed it into the bin. There was something definitely worrying his flatmate, Sherlock concluded as he left the room, John should never have missed such an easy shot.

III

Despite the fact the whole business was needling him; Sherlock found he was reluctant to raise the subject of the mawkish verse with John. He sincerely hoped that it was merely a temporary mental aberration on the part of his friend, something that would fade away as long as it remained unacknowledged.

While his blogger’s prose often tended to romanticise their exploits during various cases, John had never shown any inclination towards any other sort of sentimental writings let alone poesy. Even the selection of readings at his ill-fated wedding had been left to Mary (and the vicar).

Sherlock knew that John still saw a counsellor although not as regularly as he had in the early days, after Mary’s death and the hideous episode with Eurus. It occurred to him that they might have suggested the venture into poetry to John as some kind of therapy to get in touch with his feelings and to cope with loss. Feelings! Sherlock shuddered, a total minefield that threatened to blow up in the detective’s face should he ever venture into such dangerous territory.

*****

Later that evening, as the two men sat in the peaceable comfort of the flat, after the Chinese had been consumed to John’s satisfaction and Rosie had gone down for the night Sherlock once again saw the uneasy expression on his flatmate’s face. Whatever had been bothering him at the weekend appeared to still be on his mind. There had been a brief moment, when they were both at their most broken, where John had reached out to him and Sherlock had been able to offer some sort of comfort, may he could do that again.

“Are you ok?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean are you ok?” Sherlock tried to keep the petulance out of his voice, why was everything to do with emotions so difficult?

“Why wouldn’t I be ok?”

More answering a question with a question.

“Is something bothering you?” Sherlock replied (oh for Heaven’s sake – it was catching!).

John smiled a little sadly at his friend “I’m fine Sherlock, or at least I will be one way or another. Don’t worry about me”

John turned his attention to the newspaper on his lap; Sherlock noted that his friend was back on quick crosswords, probably for the best.

After another hour, the newspaper abandoned, John stood and stretched a little. “Right, I think I’ll turn in, don’t forget to go to bed at some point”

But Sherlock didn’t acknowledge him, he was deep in the John room of his mind palace. It was almost light when the detective finally emerged and retired to his bedroom for a couple of hours sleep.

*****

The next morning Sherlock’s mood had not improved and he was glad when John and Rosie left for the day. He had to admit the whole situation with John had unsettled him; he had no wish to see his friend so troubled. Before he could explore them further, his thoughts were interrupted by something more tangible; Molly called from the morgue to say the body from the house in Camberwell was ready for inspection.

The breakfast John had kindly placed in front of Sherlock before he left for work was still untouched, cold and unappealing he realised he had better dispose of the evidence of the uneaten meal. John was only working a half shift today and would most likely be home before Sherlock, and would not be happy that his attempts to get a square meal into the detective had come to nothing.

Sherlock thought the eggs and toast could best be hidden in the kitchen bin but to his dismay it had been emptied. The only contents were what could only be another piece of John’s notepaper torn into dozens of tiny pieces like so much confetti, Sherlock could see more of John’s handwriting. Carefully Sherlock laid out a plastic cloth on the table and emptied the contents of the bin onto it. He gathered all the fragments of paper and turned them the right way up. Then like an improvised jigsaw puzzle he began to piece them together. It was not the easiest of tasks, the pieces had been torn unevenly and possibly some were missing but finally after the best part of an hour, and with some guess work, he thought he had the complete document. Unfortunately, it was yet more sentimental tripe.

_I think you’re brilliant, I think (you)re great _

_When I first met you, I kn(ew it)was fate_

_Tha(t b)rought us together; <strike>together we are still</strike> an(d co)me what may_

_<strike>How I long for the day when</strike> I will love you to my dying day._

This was a departure from the previous verses Sherlock had discovered, it almost seemed as if John was writing the poetry himself. Why else would some of the words be struck out and replaced with others?

Sherlock was suddenly afraid, worse than when he faced Magnussen, Culverton Smith or even Moriarty. What if this was not an abstract exercise devised by John’s therapist to help him cope with his grief? What if these were John’s poor efforts to express to a new love the depth of his feelings? Sherlock experienced what he had previously described as nonsense – his blood ran cold.

Then just as quickly he pulled himself together. There was no new person in John’s life, he was sure of it. Sherlock ran through his list of John’s usual tells, he had not changed his cologne, or bought new underclothes, his favourite shirt, the one that brought out the blue of his eyes had not made an appearance recently. There were no new staff at the surgery (Sherlock had Mycroft vet all appointments, a wise precaution after the last time), and no new Mums at the play scheme. There had been no calls on Mrs H or Molly or even Sherlock to sit Rosie while John went out for the evening. No, Sherlock was certain there was no candidate for romantic interest in John Watson’s life; still it wouldn’t hurt to be vigilant.

Sweeping the uneaten breakfast and the scraps of paper into the bin he made his way out of Baker Street. Hailing a taxi he wondered if he should broach the subject of John’s poems with Molly. She was somewhat more knowledgeable in the affairs of the heart than he. But once he was in the cab he decided against this course of action, John was a very private man, and the repercussions of discussing his love life with Molly would be dire, far worse than any skipped meal.

IV

John was at work and Rosie with the minder when the call came in from Lestrade. A dead body floating in a bath in Battersea… no obvious cause of death, the bathroom door locked from the inside, almost identical to the Camberwell case plus Lestrade added the additional carrot, the house was derelict and had had no running water for two years.

“Will be there in twenty minutes, text me the address”

Sherlock quickly shrugged on his coat and wrapped his scarf round his neck, gathering together his keys and his phone and the tools of his trade, his lock picks, a small stash of specimen bags and his magnifying glass. Ah, that was not in its proper place. Sherlock remembered, he had been using it to show Rosie the intricacies of a small patch of mildew on the bathroom window sill, and must have left it there when John had told him to stop prevaricating and start cleaning.

Sherlock went to fetch the magnifier and couldn’t help noticing that a wad of soggy lined paper had appeared in the bin by the basin. He was certain it hadn’t been there last night.

Removing his tweezers from his pocket he used them to pick up the paper and prise it apart. There was some writing on the page, once more in John’s hand but the water had faded the ink to the extent that it was almost completed obliterated. Almost but not quite.

Carefully Sherlock carried the paper back into the sitting room, placed it flat on the table and switched on the lamp. Using his magnifying glass he examine each word minutely until he was fairly certain that he could make out what it said.

_My heart flips_

_When I think of your lips _

_It beats like a drum _

_When I think of your…_

Only what appeared to be the final word was obscured beyond recognition but Sherlock could tell it was clearly designed to rhyme with the third line. What could it be? Sherlock visited the dictionary corner of his mind palace… when I think of your tum? Thumb? Ileum… he shook his head, ridiculous. Oh, Sherlock felt his face burn… when I think of your bum. Sherlock’s heart did its own flip, he didn’t like the connotations of John thinking of anyone’s derriere, he didn’t like it one bit.

Sadly, it appeared it was time for Sherlock to face the hard facts. John‘s romantic conquests were legendary, he had been a widower for over a year, it was almost inevitable that he should become enamoured of someone. Despite the lack of evidence, having eliminated the impossible, whatever remained, however improbable, had to be the truth. Somehow, without giving any signs of her presence an unknown woman had inveigled her way into John’s affections. This brilliant beauty with her ebony hair, ivory skin and no doubt pert bottom had captured John’s thoughts and desires and was poised to take him, and by default Rosie, away from their home in Baker Street. Sherlock had always schooled himself to be content with whatever crumbs John chose to strew his way and now even that little morsel would be gone.

He sat at the table defeated, only when his phone rang with an anxious Lestrade trying to track him down did Sherlock get moving. There was, he consoled himself, always The Work.

V

It was late when Sherlock returned to Baker Street, so late that it could almost be called early. The flat was in darkness, Sherlock had messaged John to tell him not to wait up, having no idea how long he would be.

Sherlock had spent the day oscillating between the two most recent crime scenes in Battersea and Camberwell until suddenly, at four o’clock he had sent two texts to an anonymous number and received a hand delivered note via one of his homeless network before haring off to a show down with a serial killer on Clapham Common.

The congratulations of the Met’s finest were empty praise in the absence of his blogger, but Sherlock uncharacteristically opted to accompany Lestrade to Scotland Yard immediately to give his statement instead of making him wait until the morning; an anomaly which did not go unnoticed by the Inspector. Sherlock felt deflated, only he knew that he could have solved the mystery in half the time if he had not been so preoccupied by the knowledge of John’s new attachment. Finally finished at the Yard, he allowed the Inspector to give him a lift home.

The first thing he noticed was the faint acrid smell in the siting room, as if something had been burning. It was too warm for a fire in August but instinctively Sherlock turned his head to the fireplace and sure enough, there in the grate were the blackened remains of yet another piece of paper. It was mostly destroyed though Sherlock’s superior knowledge of ash allowed him to identify the paper as that of John’s notebook. One piece was larger than the others and Sherlock lifted it carefully into petri dish he took from his pocket and carried downstairs to his lab in 221C.

There, under the infra-red lamp, he was able to decipher the remaining few words on the charred remnant.

This poem appeared to be different still, blank verse, heart searching, poignant… It seemed that John was wrestling with his consciousness, whether to declare himself…

_Am I wrong to want…_

_What I cannot have?_

_To long for…_

_To return…_

_To a happi…_

_And clai…_

Oh John, Sherlock said out loud, of course it’s not wrong to want happiness. You’ve had enough of pain and grief for just one lifetime.

Sherlock made up his mind, he would speak to John; encourage him in his romantic endeavours. Even Mycroft could be made to assist, he was bound to have something on the poet laureate that could be used to induce him to write a poem that would bring John’s courtship to its proper conclusion.

And if Sherlock was alone again, so be it, that was a small price to pay for his friend’s happiness.

VI

Lestrade had text John the news that the case had been solved so the doctor was surprised to find Sherlock was up before him the next morning. He had fully expected the detective to sleep for sixteen hours before emerging bleary, tousled and ravenously hungry ready to consume one of Mrs Hudson’s famous fry ups.

Instead when John and Rosie made it downstairs they found Sherlock already there, suited and booted, nervously alert, and with his hands held stiffly behind his back.

“Wassup?” John mumbled as he lifted Rosie into her high chair. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re in court this morning? What happened last night? Lestrade said everything was fine”

“Of course it was fine, in the end it was barely a three”

“Then why are you all done up like that, you’re usually in your dressing gown for at least two days after a case”

Sherlock ignored John's wittering, he had geared himself up for his speech “John…”

But John cut him off, “No…no serious talk without tea, here give madam her banana”

Sherlock waited impatiently for the kettle to boil, the tea to brew and for John to fix his toast. He busied himself handing portions of banana to Rosie until finally John, seated and with a mug of tea in his hand looked up at him expectantly.

“So, what’s got you so rattled this morning?”

Sherlock rose to his full height and began the speech he had prepared during the sleepless night.

“John. It has come to my attention that you are attempting to woo your new girlfriend through the medium of verse. These efforts appear to be hampered by your complete inability to compose anything that passes for romantic poetry. While I appreciate that, like you, I have little or no talent when it comes to poetry, as your friend I wish to be of assistance in this matter. I do have contacts that could be persuaded to provide you with the necessary…”

“Enough!”

John slammed his hand down on the table, Sherlock stopped talking in surprise and Rosie whimpered.

“Don’t worry darling, it is just your git of a godfather interfering in daddy’s business, and daddy quite rightly has had enough” Turning to Sherlock, John said sharply “I will write my own poetry thank you very much, and the last person I would turn to for courtship advice is a self-confessed sociopath. Now look after Rosie for me”

Sherlock stared at John’s retreating form “Why?”

“Because I am going to get dressed and then I am going to put as much distance between us as possible until I calm down or forget this conversation has taken place, whichever is soonest”

*****

Sherlock had fed and washed Rosie, she had had a story and played with Teddy, she had had another story and examined a tiny piece of Teddy’s fur under the microscope. She had tried to steal Sherlock’s phone and cried loudly when denied it. Finally Sherlock had given in and had sat her down in front of Peppa Pig for the sake of peace and quiet. Really she could do with a walk, but he was reluctant to leave the flat and miss John’s return.

It was almost lunchtime when a chastened John came back.

“I’m sorry I lost my temper, I suppose you were trying in your half-cocked way to help”

Sherlock bent his head slightly in acknowledgement.

“Anyway” John continued “There’s something I’d like to show you”

He handed a sheet of the familiar notepaper to Sherlock, another poem, a longer, complete one. Sherlock read it quickly, and then again taking his time.

_Sweetheart, you amaze me_

_Have I told you that enough?_

_Everything you do is brilliant, and_

_Really, you’re hot stuff._

_Let me tell you how much I adore you,_

_Oh say you feel the same._

_Come let me hold you_

_Kiss you, whispering your name._

_Before, my life lacked meaning, an_

_Endless emptiness faced me,_

_Meeting you changed everything._

_If I was dying my last words would be_

_Never doubt my love for you – _

_Eternal, faithful and true._

“Undoubtedly your best effort so far … however I think I must say I am not optimistic about your chances of success”

John’s face fell; he looked down at his shoes and mumbled “Well, that’s that then”

Sherlock was surprised at John’s reaction and said so, quite forcefully “John, you have written a sonnet for your girlfriend which, quite inadvertently I am sure, spells out Sherlock be mine as an acrostic. I know you tend not to prioritise intelligence in the attributes of a potential partner but the recipient of this poem could hardly miss what it says”

John bristled and squared up to his flatmate “No, you cock! It’s not unintentional at all. I wrote the poem for you”

Sherlock blinked, he opened his mouth but nothing came out. He blinked again, and again. In total he blinked fifty-seven times in twenty-two seconds. It hurt John’s eyes to watch.

“Sherlock, say something”

The silence continued although the blinking abated somewhat.

“Sherlock, talk to me…” John clapped his hands together in front of Sherlock’s face. The noise distracted Rosie from the television and thinking it was some kind of game she enthusiastically joined in. Despite their joint efforts it was still some minutes before Sherlock was back in the room.

“You wrote that poem…for me?”

“Yes”

“And the others, the scraps I found”

“Failed first efforts…which by the way you were never meant to see, the point of my not inconsiderable efforts to destroy them…git!”

“So all those words, beauty, brilliant, hair, legs, lips… you were writing about me?”

The incredulity of Sherlock’s expression and threat of the blinking starting up again, prompted John to answer quickly.

“Yes”

“And that’s what you think about me?”

“Yes”

“Then yes”

“Yes?”

“Yes"

"To all of it?"

"Well, I am not entirely certain how you could kiss me and whisper my name at the same...”

John broke into the widest of smiles, gathered his Sherlock in his arms and proceeded to show him just how it was done.

“But John” Sherlock said when he came up for breath.

“Yes?”

“No more poems, please, from now on actions speak louder than words”


End file.
